


I will always be a tortured soul, don't fix me up just let me go

by itsafuckingdeathwish



Series: joshler ed au [1]
Category: Bandom, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Anorexia, Depression, Eating Disorders, M/M, could be just like really good friends or whatever, only joshler if you squint, please don't blame me for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:24:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsafuckingdeathwish/pseuds/itsafuckingdeathwish
Summary: Tyler wasn’t an angel.  He was just another literary trope brought to life.  How many times had he read about the tortured poet, cigarette smoke twining around his head like some twisting mockery of a halo, quietly self-destructing at every moment.  The stereotypical starving artist, except he wasn’t not eating because of the collapsing economy, but because something fundamental inside him had already collapsed a long time ago.





	I will always be a tortured soul, don't fix me up just let me go

**Author's Note:**

> Serious tw for anorexia and hints of depression, stay safe!

Smoke was hypnotizing.  Or maybe Tyler was just high on _empty_.  Oh, who was he kidding?  If emptiness was a drug, he’d fallen in to the spiral of addiction far too long ago; he was stuck at the bottom of the rabbit hole, and Wonderland was close enough to touch, but it had never felt so far away.  But even though he was swept up in the incredible rush that was feeling like nothing at all, cigarette smoke had always mesmerized him.  He could see and feel and taste and smell it as it slowly destroyed him.  Sometimes he thought that his life was just a race to see which would kill him first, the starving or the smoking.  But races usually had spectators, and anyone who could play a witness to the games he played with his body didn’t seem to care enough to notice.  He liked to imagine sometimes that before the smoking or the starving could finally destroy him, something else would get to him first; maybe a piano would fall on his head, or he’d trip on a stray shoelace and end up sprawled in front of a city bus. 

 

Maybe the fire would consume him before the smoke.  Flames crept up the smoldering cigarette, before moving on to Tyler.  The flames licked at his cold cold skin, toyed with his thinning hair, and then finally they consumed him and he disintegrated into ashes that drifted away with the wind.

 

“Tyler.”  The fantasy dissolved as quickly as his body had, and he quickly lifted his unfortunately still-there head to glance at his friend.

 

When Tyler didn’t say anything, just looked at him with unblinking eyes, Josh continued.  “Ty, are you okay?”

 

No, Tyler wasn’t fucking okay.  But Josh was one of those would-be spectators to the race for Tyler’s destruction who had a front row seat, but refused to open his eyes. 

 

“Yeah, of course.  I’m fine, why?”

 

“I don’t know.”  Josh was still staring at Tyler with those huge fucking eyes, and for once the story in Josh’s eyes seemed like it was written in some foreign language, because Tyler couldn’t even understand a word, when he used to be able read him like an old favorite book.  “I just felt like you . . . left for a second, and I don’t know where you went.”  His voice was soft, and his skin against Tyler’s side was softer.

 

All of a sudden, Tyler realized just how angelic the boy sitting next to him was.  Sunshine and daisies and home and warm hugs, the kind that just envelope _all_ of you, even when it was only somebody’s arms around you.  Clean mint.  Smiles bigger than the fucking moon.  That smell just before it rains.  Eyes that held the whole world in them, that said everything that need to be said without a single sound.  The hands of a drummer and the soul of an artist and the voice of a siren. 

 

For just a second, Tyler let himself bask in Josh’s glow, but then, as always, the voices in his head pulled the blackout curtains down over the windows, and Tyler was alone in the dark again. 

 

Tyler wasn’t an angel.  He was just another literary trope brought to life.  How many times had he read about the tortured poet, cigarette smoke twining around his head like some twisting mockery of a halo, quietly self-destructing at every moment.  The stereotypical starving artist, except he wasn’t not eating because of the collapsing economy, but because something fundamental inside him had already collapsed a long time ago.  Wearing baggy dark clothes.  All too welcoming of the inevitable end of the universe.  Pretending to hate everyone to hide how much he hated himself.  A falling star, burning too brightly as he just waited for the crash. 

 

Most of those stories didn’t have happy endings, and they were all the same, really.  Pick your poison, then wait for it to finally off you.  Just make sure that the bits in between have plenty of drawn out metaphors and poetic decay. 

 

Somehow Tyler didn’t think he’d be any different.  Just another tortured soul, held together with dramatic lyrics, black coffee, and used cigarettes, in a train on the tracks to nowhere. 

 

He guessed he was a bit different from the rest, in that their poison wasn’t starving until they fell over when they tried to stand up, wasn’t crunches until two am, wasn’t counting calories like counting sheep. 

 

Because people read about them because they were perfectly broken, were falling apart in the most beautiful way.  But boys didn’t starve.  Boys didn’t have anorexia.  Anorexia was for pretty, skinny girls in black and white edits.  Anorexia was collarbones and hip bones and spines and dainty wrists and cheekbones like knives and thigh gaps like a canyon and ribcages that held a heart that struggled with all its might against life.  And yes, Tyler had all that, but he also had a disgusting pouch of fat that clung to his belly and flapping thighs.

 

fatskinnyfat anorexic boys weren’t beautiful, weren’t perfect. 

 

Tyler wasn’t beautiful.  And he never would be.  But at least he could be skinny.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I don't even really know why I posted this, it's really weird and bad and tyler sounds high because I was kinda out of it cause i was at the end of a fast when i wrote it. Btw, I'm totally not saying that this is how eating disorders are for most people or even anybody else, this is just kinda some of my 2 am thoughts put in the head of a band member, and just my experiences/feelings. Seriously, if you think you might be developing an eating disorder, please get help! It's not fun, it's not easy, and it honestly sucks but it's not something you can easily change. It warps your entire mind; sometimes I just start thinking about how far away the things I think now are from my thoughts before this all started, and not in a good direction. If you need support or just want to talk, my tumblr is always open, please message me, i'm @frerard-under-the-mistletoe or @black-coffee-ice-water. Please stay safe, guys!


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